


The Laws of Love

by La Reine Noire (lareinenoire)



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Adaptations - All Media Types, Le Morte d'Arthur - Thomas Malory
Genre: Multi, Polyamory, Royalty in Compromising Positions, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2008-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-14 08:31:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lareinenoire/pseuds/La%20Reine%20Noire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was nothing simple about a divided heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Laws of Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [isidore13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isidore13/gifts).



> Originally written for Yuletide 2008. Many, many thanks to everyone who read and offered concrit on Livejournal, and, as usual, to Rosamund for all her plotting and editing help. To my recipient -- you wanted slashy Lancelot/Arthur with a happy(ish) ending, and I hope this at least fulfils part of the request. I'm afraid I'm absolutely hopeless at writing smut, so UST is the order of the day. It takes place in the universe of Thomas Malory's _Morte D'arthur_ , roughly toward the end of Book 9.
> 
> The original Yuletide link with original comments is [here.](http://yuletidetreasure.org/archive/63/thelaws.html)

_i. Guenevere_

She could not remember when she had begun to watch them covertly, when they had strayed to the corners of her vision. Her husband and her---no, she would not say it. He was not hers, had never been and could not be. If Lancelot belonged to anybody, surely it was Arthur. As she belonged to Arthur.

And Guenevere loved Arthur. How could she not, when he had been nothing but the best of husbands? He had every right to rid himself of her, given her signal failure to provide him an heir, yet Arthur had never shown any sign of resentment. He was, in all ways, the centre of her world, of her being. She could not imagine being without him.

Which was, she was forced to admit, the crux of the problem, really.

Guenevere had thought--nay, flattered herself--that she knew her husband as well as she knew herself. But it was Lancelot who seemed to read his every thought, who all but finished his sentences, who shared with him a language nobody else could understand. They looked nothing alike--Arthur, broad and gilded beneath the sun; Lancelot dark and lithe--but their minds spoke to one another in a way she could not fathom. And, God help her, she loved them both. _Thou shalt not covet another man's wife._ Bitterly, she wondered at the lack of a commandment forbidding a woman to covet her husband's best friend. The bishops had never squandered the opportunity to rail against Eve's unfortunate daughters. Perhaps they assumed a woman's desires were beyond anybody's control.

For she desired. It simmered beneath her skin as she watched them, feasted with them, laughed with them, and loved them. How was it that a woman could find it in her heart to love two men? She did--of that, she was certain. Arthur, bless him, for all his cleverness, believed that all men were as good as he, that falsehood could be blotted away with enough incentive. Lancelot knew better. And Guenevere could no longer bear to look him in the eye, so terrified was she that he would see through the poor, fragile artifice she forced into place, to where treachery and passion burned and threatened to consume her altogether.

Next to the sun, it was said that Venus was the brightest star in the heavens. And so Venus shone in her own heaven, whose spheres had once drifted along in perfect harmony. Now all was discord, harsh and jangling.

But it was only when the knight in unmarked black armour entered Camelot's Hall that everything changed. For he bore a shield on which was painted a King and a Queen, with a Knight above, treading on both. Arthur must have heard her indrawn breath, for he glanced a question at her, one she could not answer at first. Then, in a voice too breathless, she suggested tartly, "Perhaps he comes from Cornwall?"

Everyone knew, after all, of Fair Iseult. It was a weak jest, but Arthur laughed under his breath. "You are cruel, my lady."

"A pity Sir Tristram isn't here. No doubt he would have obliged this challenger." In fact, it was Tristram's very disappearance that occasioned Lancelot's absence--he had taken it upon himself to seek out the other knight and bring him back. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise. Lancelot would have convinced himself that his honour was at stake. It did not matter that he was the best of Arthur's knights. Her heart still raced when she watched him in the lists.

As it raced now. Who could have read her thoughts thus? She had thought herself discreet, sneaking glances at Lancelot only when she was certain there was nobody else by. And he had revealed nothing at all; he was champion to them both since her honour was Arthur's honour, and who better to defend the collective honour of Camelot than the greatest knight the Round Table had to offer?

But she would bite her tongue now. After all, she was innocent in deed if not entirely in thought. And her thoughts were nobody's business but her own.

_ii. Lancelot_

He sensed Arthur's mood even before the King opened his mouth. It was something in his eyes; something Lancelot couldn't quite specify, but that he recognised all the same. And the odd, darting looks he cast in the direction of his Queen. Lancelot lowered his own gaze, afraid of what might appear there to give him away.

It was not until some time later that Arthur sent for him. Not an order--never an order, even though Arthur was his King and there were those who scoffed at his willingness to treat his knights as equals. Even Lancelot was never certain how he felt about that. Kings were meant to be obeyed without question. Worshipped as God's instrument on earth. Especially Arthur, who had claimed his realm by right of conquest and divine will. Who was Lancelot to treat such a man as an equal?

And yet Arthur insisted upon it, while Lancelot secretly relished the expression of fond frustration he provoked every time he refused to address his King by name. "Your Majesty." He sneaked a glance upward and bit back the smile as Arthur's lips pursed.

"If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times--"

"And you know my answer," Lancelot interjected, allowing himself to smile, "Your Majesty."

"Insufferable man. But that is not why I called you here." He threw himself down on the nearest chair, all arms and legs and laughter, while Lancelot stayed in place, as conscious of decorum as he was of Arthur's eyes on him. "Oh, stand up, for goodness' sake. At ease."

"I haven't found Tristram, I'm afraid." The lie tasted sour on his tongue as he leant against the table. But Tristram did not wish to be found, and how could he deny a fellow knight the comfort of anonymity? "I'm sure he'll return sooner or later. He just needs time."

But Arthur barely seemed to be listening. He was fiddling with one of his rings instead, lower lip tucked beneath his teeth, and his left foot beating a tattoo against the floor. The rushes scattered and Lancelot sighed. But before he could say anything, Arthur looked up, something in his eyes Lancelot had never seen before. Concern, anxiety, _fear_ \--when had Arthur ever been scared of anything? "Do you love me, Lancelot?"

It was as though the floor had dropped from beneath him. "Of course, sire. How can you ask me that?"

"You are a subject and therefore bound to love your King. That is not what I meant." His fingers twitched against the tabletop, the rhythm growing more insistent. Lancelot could not look at him, afraid of what Arthur might see. "Well?"

"You are my King, but that is not why I love you." Lancelot had always maintained that a healthy spark of fear before any battle made him fight all the better. This was no spark, but a bonfire, raging beyond his control. "You are the greatest King any knight could hope to serve; you have made us--each and every one of us--more than the sum of our parts. But that is not why I love you, sire."

"Why, then?"

Lancelot forced his eyes upward and met Arthur's. He opened his mouth, but the words were stoppered in his throat. A thousand circling thoughts taunted him. He could no sooner explain why he loved Arthur than he could explain the blood running through his veins or why he needed to breathe. It simply _was_. But he could not say that.

"What of my Queen, Lancelot? Do you love her?"

That jolted him from his reverie, however brief. "You are no Mark of Cornwall, sire."

"But would I be, I wonder, if you were not a man of such infinite control?" The words were practically bitten off. "The Lady Morgan seems to think so."

So that was the source of the shield about which he had heard so much. He should have guessed. "Morgan le Fay wants me for herself, sire. You cannot trust her."

"Many want you for themselves, Lancelot. Must I distrust all of them?" At that, Lancelot felt an unaccustomed flush rise in his cheeks. There was a hint of teasing in Arthur's voice, beneath the unaccustomed fear, and Lancelot swallowed, staring at the tabletop, at Arthur's fingers still dancing across its surface. The thoughts that provoked were best kept to himself.

"You can trust your Queen, sire," he finally said. "And you can trust me. Have we not proven that time and time again?" It was a low blow, he knew. He did not look at Arthur, but he knew the other had flinched. Lancelot sank to his knees again. "Look at me, sire. I would never betray you. I could not bear it."

"Nor could I, Lancelot." He barely heard the response, muffled as it was behind his hand. "I lo--care too deeply for you both." Suddenly, Arthur laughed, and Lancelot glanced up, startled. "I suppose that makes it true, doesn't it?"

"Makes what true, sire?"

"The shield." Arthur's fingers, stilled now, hovered beneath Lancelot's chin. "A King, a Queen, and a knight. All tangled together."

"But not like Cornwall, sire," Lancelot said, breath catching in his throat. "Tristram didn't...it was only ever Iseult for him." In that way, things were far simpler for Tristram, who could claim the forfeit of a potion and keep his honour intact for a love that was beyond his control. There was nothing simple about a divided heart.

"And for you?"

It was a sin. A blot on knightly honour darker even than adultery, and no prayer or penance to wash it clean. But as Lancelot touched his lips to those of his King, he found he did not care. There were no questions anymore. It simply was.

_iii. Arthur_

The knight's kiss still burned on his lips, even hours later.

He wondered why Merlin had not warned him about this. After all, the wizard had warned him about Guenevere and Lancelot years ago--how could he, who saw all things, not have foreseen Arthur's own fall?

Or perhaps he had seen it and simply chosen not to tell him. Merlin had no rules. He was bound to nobody, least of all Arthur. And Arthur had chosen to marry Guenevere in spite of Merlin's warnings, had he not? Perhaps his former tutor had chosen not to waste his breath on a pupil who would not listen.

 _You are no Mark of Cornwall, sire._ No, indeed. He was something else altogether. Mark of Cornwall worshipped his wife as if she were an idol on a pedestal. Guenevere had laughed about it, teased Arthur that he would never be so foolish. Guenevere, who was now studying him over a book she pretended to read.

"You're glowering."

Arthur laughed. "I'm thinking. There's a difference."

"Arthur, something is wrong." Setting the book down, she knelt beside his chair, just as Lancelot had done--but he would not think about that. "Will you tell me?"

The candlelight played across her face, deepening her pale hair to gold and casting shadows over her skin. A face he knew as well as his own by now, and loved without reservation. It was not her fault that, for a split-second, he saw someone else. "This Cornwall...affair. It makes a person wonder."

"Wonder, my lord?" she echoed. There it was, a spark of fear in her eyes, but she did not look away. A woman she might be, but he would never fault Guenevere for lack of spirit. "What about?"

He considered dropping the subject, but the words emerged before he could convince himself. "Is it possible to love two people at once, do you think?"

Guenevere paled visibly, dropping her eyes for a moment. "Yes, Arthur. I do not believe it to be the case in Cornwall, but I believe it is possible." When she looked at him again, her jaw was set defiantly. "You know it was the lady Morgan who sent that knight."

"I do." As he was quite certain the mysterious damsel who had taken him aside during that banquet also came from his half-sister. A warning, she had said, of dishonour to him and his Queen. "But I am King, Guenevere. I cannot simply ignore it."

"I know," she whispered. "Nothing happened. I swear to you. She's jealous, always has been, and she knows what Lancelot means to...to both of us."

 _Many want you for themselves._ He bit back his laughter now, instead held his wife's hands as she watched him warily. "Yes. I daresay she knows more than we might like. Morgan always has." Of course, Morgan never failed to underestimate him either, for all her cleverness. Kings commanded loyalty in many ways, not all of which were immediately apparent.

"I never meant for it to be like this." No, none of them had meant it, Arthur least of all. He could feel the beginnings of a nervous twitch in his left hand, and twined his fingers through hers to stifle it. He had to tell her. How could he not tell her? But for the first time in all his years of marriage, Arthur knew he could not predict Guenevere's reaction. Swallowing despite the sudden dryness in his throat, he plunged forth.

"Nor did I, love." At that, she started, eyes widening, and Arthur forced himself to continue, to tell the truth. "I would not hurt you."

"You've never hurt me, Arthur," said Guenevere very slowly. "I have not been the Queen I should, I cannot give you children, and now I..." her voice cracked, "I would not be Iseult, my lord."

"No, you would not be," he said, smiling. "I know you too well for that, and Lancelot no less. Not to mention, I have it on good authority that I am nothing like Mark."

His wife gave a startled yelp of laughter. "I think we can all vouch for that." A breath, and she added, "Lancelot, perhaps, most of all."

Arthur was very still all of a sudden.

"I'm not blind, Arthur. Not to either of you. Or both, as it happens." Another gasp of laughter, this time tempered with a strange sort of relief. "I should have guessed it sooner, though. He worships you."

"I never asked to be worshipped, Guenevere," Arthur muttered, aware now that he was blushing furiously. No doubt it was a blessing that he never had to hide things from his wife; she could read him far too well and they both knew it. Accepting the change of topic, he grimaced. "In fact, I'm bloody sick of it, and he still insists..."

"Well..." He could hear the wicked smile in her voice as she rose. "Perhaps you simply need to give him orders instead." Arthur could only stare wordlessly for a few seconds, while she retrieved her book. "Love has its own laws, husband. I wish you well."

"Guenevere!" He was half out of the chair by the time she paused at the door. "You don't...I know how you feel about him."

She nodded. "I want him to be happy, Arthur. And you. All of us, perhaps, if all goes well."

"If all goes well," he echoed weakly as she left. He did not realise he had even moved until he found himself closing the door behind him and hurrying down the corridor, one hand forestalling the guards who sought to follow him.

Arthur almost laughed when he flung open the door to Lancelot's room to find the knight in a battle-ready crouch, sword in hand. "Regicide is generally frowned upon," he said dryly.

"Sire!" The weapon slipped from Lancelot's hand. "Forgive me, I..."

"Don't start that." Arthur's throat was suddenly dry, drained of words. He moved forward, slowly, carefully, and reached out to touch the other's cheek. Lancelot shivered, and he could bear it no longer. He might have expected the kiss to surprise him, but it did not; it simply erased everything else, court and ceremony, the entire world, leaving just the two of them.

Lancelot looked at him, eyes alight with desire. "I told you so."

"Told me what?"

"That I loved you, sire."

"Call me Arthur." Remembering Guenevere's words, he added with a laugh, "And that's an order."

  


   
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